Dead Silence
by BanishedOne
Summary: At a time when rather unfortunate events are coming to a boiling point in America, the nation is faced with tracking down an incredibly slippery vigilante terrorist who calls himself 'Dead Silence'. How long can the supposed 'super hero' manage to outwit and outmatch the combined forces of America, Canada, and England? [(Some implied pairings.)]


[Warning; This story contains scenes that may be troubling to some readers.

Also, this story isn't entirely in chronological order, so it may be moderately confusing if you're not paying attention. However, the songs featured throughout the story are meant to aid you, the readers, in keeping track of what happens when.

Lastly, I wish to express to you all this one final thing;

This is a work of fiction.]

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:: ::

A man clutched a can of spray paint tightly in his gloved palm. His hand trembled softly as the warmth of his breath collected against his skin just beneath the scarf pulled over his face, to conceal him. He stared at the empty space of the cement pillar just beneath the busy highway bridge; he stared contemplating his message and if the time had truly come to pass it on.

Then finally, he took a deep breath as he raised his arm in a swift fidget of movement, as though he were punching his way through his trepidation, letting the hiss of spray break the silence, his silence. One dot of white paint marred the gray surface of the wall, dripping down in long, thin trails that dried as it spread thin on its way down.

The initial stain gave the man the final push of bravery he needed to complete a series of large, bold letters which lined up at last to form one short message to any random passer-by that might read it and contemplate its meaning.

'_End the Silence.'_

:: ::

He pulled himself sluggishly from bed, and walked to the sliding glass door that led out onto his balcony, feeling the crisp, cold, dampness of the morning air chill the skin of his bare chest. He looked down over the city. The sun had yet to peek over the New York skyline, though it lingered just on the threshold of rising, which was enough to brighten the sky from black to the coloration of deep, blue water.

The pensive, blonde male was up earlier than usual. The gurgle of his coffee maker had yet to purr to life on its ever early-rising schedule. His eyes were still tired, and even the voice of his thoughts hadn't acquired its waking vigor. Still, he pondered the unusual occurrence of being up early enough to greet the sun as a means of fighting off the urge to clamber back to his bed and sleep until the incessant, beaming sun was well into the sky and had brightened his apartment to warm, golden tones.

What had given him back the slight spark of life enough to rouse him from the death grip slumber had on him as of late? Perhaps it was just his nerves working over the events of the week that lay behind him, because he dared not issue himself undeserved praise, not now anyway..

He remained hunched slightly over the guardrail of the balcony, his unframed azure gaze flickering blurrily over the darkened windows of other buildings, and the calm traffic flow of the streets below that would soon go from the dull, steady stream to brimming with honking cars, positioned irritably bumper-to-bumper... He remained there, in the near-silence of his groggy mind and the near-silence of his dark high-rise, only coming to be interrupted by the sudden announcement of time from his alarm clock through the song playing beneath the faint static on the radio setting.

A vigorous instrumental deftly began what sounded both energetic and foreboding in its tone, though it carried in a lyrical outcry, '_I'm just a step away. I'm just a breath away. Losing my faith today. Falling off the edge today. I am just a man, not superhuman. I'm not superhuman. Someone save me from the hate_.'

The song continued, undeterred by the usually violent attack on the snooze button that came to quiet the various melodies that would greet the morning, though America actively attempted to pay it little mind, even as the singer serenaded the drab new day with his expressions of challenge that suddenly hit home more personally than the blonde male in earshot wanted to confess, '_It's just another war. Just another family torn. Falling from my faith today. Just a step from the edge. Just another day in the world we live._'

'_I need a hero_.'

:: ::

The dark melody of whining electric guitars, bass and drum beats erupted to shatter what had been a dark, peaceful slumber. '_Don't fret precious, I'm here, stick away from the window and go back to sleep_,'

"That's not helpful." The man occupying the bed that was positioned directly next to the night stand whined about the inappropriate lyrics of the song that had been his call to wake this morning. Was it really 7AM already? He was sure he'd just fallen asleep.

He listened to the song for a moment longer as he steeled his will to rise from the warm embrace of his sheets and blankets, and the softness of the morning's glow through his windows, not yet vivid and golden enough to disturb him. '_Lay your head down child, I won't let the boogeyman come. Counting bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drum._'

"Nope," the blonde male yawn as he stirred, and sat upright, "I laid my head down all night, stupid song."

Pushing away the blankets, and the soft warmth they radiated, the wakened country quickly pulled on the baggy sleep pants that had been tossed to the floor the previous night. It had been too warm beneath the covers for them, but was now too chilly to go without. He didn't bother seeking out a shirt to cover his bare upper body, however; the immediate cold feeling of the air in his apartment would dull away once he starting moving around. For now, the cool air pushed him into a state of better waking. He still yawned again as he stood from the bed, rubbed at his eyes, then grabbed his glasses from the bedside table and put them on.

Not bothering to turn the alarm clock's radio off, it was allowed to play. '_Pay no mind what other voices say, they don't care about you, like I do. Safe from pain, and truth and choice, and other poisoned devils. See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do. Just stay with me, safe and ignorant, and go back to sleep._'

Stretching as he walked, bare feet on the smooth, cool surface of the wood floor beneath him, America slowly made his way out his bedroom door into the main body of his living area. The room was an open area, the livingroom separated from the kitchen by an island counter that had barstools pushed under the overhanging granite countertops. It was smaller than places he'd lived in the past, but he'd learned over time that smaller homes were easier to maintain, as cleaning wasn't exactly a hobby.

All that really mattered was that this place symbolized a certain precipice of modern American lifestyle; a luxury highrise overlooking his most beloved city, where everything he wanted to be near was readily accessible. That was enough, and it helped him start his day in a fantastic mood each morning.

The country was busying his hands with taking his favorite mug from the cupboard and pouring himself a cup of coffee, when he remembered from the night previous that his recycling bin had looked unusually full. Glancing over in the direction of his refrigerator, he took a look at the magnetic dry-erase calendar that hung there, constantly reminding him of important chores. It was something of a requirement, thanks to America's forgetful nature, though some of his neighbors joked that one might think he was a single father to five or six children with how he struggled to stay organized, and remember important events.

Recycling was marked to be taken every Monday at 8AM, and according to the Xs' that marked off days past, today was Monday, September 10th. With the kind of groan that made it audibly apparent that the country had quite a contempt for chores, America mussed his bedhead in some sort of attempt to make it neater, since he had no choice but to carry the recycling bin downstairs and sort things before the truck showed up at eight.

Hurriedly, the blonde male opened the lower cabinet where the recycling bin waited, and he began toward the front door, and down the hall to the elevator.

America was fairly glad that he didn't run into anybody in the elevator, because even he was vain enough to dislike the notion of somebody seeing him only as he'd just crawled out of bed. He waited as the elevator descended from the 34th floor to the basement level where the large bins waited, knowing that if he didn't get this done by the time the truck arrived, the people on pickup duty would turn him around; they were total hard-asses about their schedule.

However, when the blonde male made it into the sorting room, he was shocked to find that the bins were already empty. Immediately puzzled, the country stood there looking absolutely confounded as he attempted to figure out what could have occurred, when a well-dressed man passed by, on his way to the parking deck to face his busy work day in the office.

"Alfred, what are you doing?," he laughed, "didn't even have time to put on any shoes, huh?"

The country greeted his neighbor with a smile, and also kind of laughed in chorus. "Ahh, yeah.. I was brining my recyclables down. Did the truck come early or something?"

"Nope," the man answered, "You're just incredibly late. Don't you know it's Tuesday. They came yesterday."

"Haa, no," the country continued laughing at his blunder, the only thing he could do to play it off like no big deal, "You know me, I always lose track of what day it is over the weekend."

"Well I don't blame you," the man attempted to reassure his forgetful neighbor, "Mondays are a pain. I wish I could just conveniently forget about them until the following day, but my boss wouldn't be very happy with me. I hope you won't be in any kind of trouble, Mr. Alfred."

"Tchh, no way," the blonde male batted his hand, dismissing his neighbor's worries. "All I have to worry about is my overflowing recyclables. I guess I'll just have to add this junk to garbage, that way I can at least get rid of it on Friday."

"Alright, well, I'll see you later. I've got to be at work by 9, and you know how the morning commute is." The man waved as he headed off on his way.

"Yeah, seeya'!," the country called as the other man took off.

America started back on his way upstairs, momentarily debating on walking up the stairs for exercise or taking the elevator. He quickly decided it was too early for stair-walking and got on the elevator.

While waiting on the elevator, however, the blonde male began to think he could hear a suspicious whisper, as though there were people quietly discussing something secretively around a corner, perhaps. This instantly caused the country a bout of nervousness, because he was sure he was all alone. He told himself that maybe there were a few people chatting in the parking deck and that maybe his hearing was becoming incredibly enhanced since his vision had dulled so early in his life.

The country ignored the whispers while he could, yet even after he boarded the elevator, over its sing-song chiming and the sound of the mechanical parts and pulleys tugging and grinding, he could still hear the voices; even as he exited the elevator, he could still hear the sound of the voices, and it left him looking up and down the hallways, calling out, 'Hello?'

He shrugged this off as best he could, though not escaping an unnerving feeling refusing to be buried in the back of his mind. With a charade of nonchalance, he sauntered back to the door of his apartment. He settled easily back into the comfort of overconfidence and the reminder that this morning was just the beginning of a most mundane, average day... he had nothing of great importance to do. Maybe go out for breakfast, run some errands and find something exciting to entertain himself with by later; here was to hoping.

It was only after the nation had vigorously stuffed his recyclables into the garbage can, annoyed merely at the wasted efforts it took for him to keep the mess sorted only to combine it all again, that he finally got around to actually enjoying his first cup of coffee. Perhaps he didn't need the caffeine to jumpstart his engine like the average mortal being, but he'd come to lean on it, even if it pushed him beyond his regular state of energetic dynamo to pure static elation. What could he say? He lived life full-blast, and he didn't want to warm the motor naturally if it could be avoided.

Somewhere in between the first sips of his coffee, the blonde male set his cup down on the island counter and meandered from his kitchen to his livingroom, and over to the shades that sheltered his home from the vibrant sun until he was prepared to greet it. With a yank, the blinds were lifted from over the large, floor-to-ceiling windows in his livingroom, and he welcomed the glorious vision of the sun, well into the sky over the Manhattan skyline which stretched up as well as below, reflected in the water that separated America's apartment from the downtown area.

'_What's going on? I don't know. Mommy, I'm scared. Shh, it's okay. It's not okay! Can I use your phone? Just a minute...hello? Hello? Something's wrong. I don't know, I don't know. Oh my God, she's dying. They stabbed her. This isn't good. What do we do?'_

America shook his head, covering his ears momentarily as the faint whispers returned, sure this time that he made out distinct voices, and sentences. He could hear the nervousness, the panic, but he shut it out suddenly, if only because he was clueless as to what was going on.

He dropped his hands to his side as the strange echoes ceased to trouble him, and he glanced around again, feeling dumbfounded. 'What is that?,' he griped in a tone of annoyance, though he wore this as a mask to reassure himself more than anything. He was aware of this occurrence. He knew what it was.

He grabbed the remote control from a coffee table and plopped down on his couch as he turned on the TV. The news was his immediate resource, as he was fully aware that his semi-telepathic burden was likely attributed to some kind of tragedy going on here in his homeland. He couldn't be sure if it was some minor scrape nearby in New York (closer to him and therefore more easy for him to feel), since those tended to be common, or if this was the sign of something bigger to come, someplace elsewhere within his borders. Surely if he was feeling the tension of his citizens now, he wouldn't be hearing about anything for a while..

Still, whenever there was a large-scale upset, he felt the repercussions. In his home, when fear, tension and pain rose high enough at the same time, it impacted his mood and his senses, as though he were connected to every single one of his people... because he was. That's why the sudden whispers echoing through his head had him nervously on edge, though all he found on the news were old gripes about the Hurricane Floyd and how the city had better prepared itself for flooding incidents since then.

The news went to commercial, and there was a knock at America's front door. He stood, only to saunter into the kitchen, in view of the door, though he didn't bother with opening it. He was cozy enough with his neighbors to be perfectly at ease letting them let themselves in.

'Yeah, it's open!,' he called to the mysterious visitor as he grabbed his coffee up from the island counter in the kitchen. His blue eyes watched the door open as a young lady in gym clothes appeared in the doorway.

'Geez, Alfred, what's up with you still being in pajama pants, huh? You were supposed to go down to the gym with me today, remember?'

America had made a habit of doing his workouts with one of his neighbors, enjoying the company. It made things feel so much less boring. However, since he only discovered maybe twenty minutes ago that he was behind schedule by an entire day, he hadn't been prepared.

"Yeah, sorry. I lost track of what day it was, and I'm already in shit because of it, since I was supposed to take my recyclables out yesterday and now I have a full can of garbage before the week even gets started."

"Then get your act together already and get your workout clothes on."

America glanced back at the television, listening to the drone of what seemed to be an insurance commercial, though the little voice still worried him, even if it was entirely irrelevant to his worries. "I'm gonna have to pass on it today. I've got some things on my mind.. Can't focus, ya' know?"

"Tchh," the young woman scoffed at her neighbor's lack of discipline, but nodded her head, letting him off the hook regardless. "I understand. But you'd better double your efforts next week, or you'll end up with a pot belly, eating all that fast-food."

The blonde male laughed as he nodded in agreement, temporarily thinking to himself that perhaps it was still bound to be a regular day. Maybe he would hear word of some violent crime later in the evening, and he could lament over it at that time but.. what was already done was out of his hands and the most he could do was concern himself with whatever swift justice could be granted in the aftermath. Regrettable things happened every day and though he felt the faintest touches of sadness, it was something one grew accustomed to.

Mortal people lived, and they died, and eventually the passing of old generations faded into ordinary occurrence, one that was admittably sad, but easy enough to get past. All of the everlastingly young, outwardly human embodiments of nations distanced themselves from ties to their people that was too close or personal in knowing that all mortals would die in what seemed like a blink in time.. It was at a distance that each nation was meant to feel undying compassion for their people, and shoulder the burden of centuries of pain in whatever way they could, because it was something they could never escape.

America's cure was that of entertainment and plain old apathy, to the best of his ability. Forget it all and just keep moving.

The young women left the blonde male to himself, and he half-stood, half-propped against a barstool at the island counter, where he sipped his coffee in peace. There was nothing to worry about. Things went wrong sometimes, but nothing he couldn't handle. He was the United States of America, and he was on such a haughty pedestal that he could hardly be reached.

It was as the nation lifted his coffee cup to his lips for another sip that the whispers from before poured into his mind once again, their volume increased tenfold, twenty-fold.. What had been tense, anxious utterings now stung in the blonde male's eardrums, loud, unexpected and bathed in sheer terror. There were some words, but mostly screams of shock, of panic, of fear. He could hear every voice in that moment, crying out. He could feel the surge of emotion, of absolute horror, climbing to an unbearable precipice, which crescendoed in an explosion that shook the blonde male to utter instability.

His fingers loosened from round his cup, letting it fall from his grasp, as though forgotten, and America's hands once more clutched at his head, covering his ears to drown out the noise, barely succeeding in blotting out even a bit of it, until the glass mug shattered on the floor before him. The sound was lost in a deafening clap of thunder, no, an explosion, which shook the frame of his home, the windows, and knocked the power out for a fraction of a second.

When the sound suddenly dissipated as quickly as it has happened, the blonde male found himself on his knees on the floor. His fingers barely registered the sting of hot liquid and shards of glass, as his head reeled, and a sharp pain ignited in his chest, bursting through him, and scratching at the back of his throat as it clawed its way up. He coughed, turning his head into the crook of his elbow so to keep himself from retching as a horrid, burning pressure pushed to escape from him. A fit of coughing came over him, producing a spatter of crimson down his chin and onto his arm as he shielded his mouth.

What happened? ..that was all he could manage. That was all his mind processed. His vision perceived a blur before him, and he blindly sought his glasses, which had fallen from their intended perch when he toppled over. He returned them easily enough, minimizing the blur by some fraction, as his eyes stung with tears of pain.

..what happened? ..what happened? His mind hopelessly questioned, as if he expected some omnipotent voice to answer his silent pleas, but that all became unnecessary as he pulled himself back to his feet, bracing against the island counter.

He could see from where he stood in the kitchen, straight out the large windows of his livingroom, that a stark black cloud stretched up toward the clear blue morning sky from the uppermost floors of the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

There was only a moment of solitude within the nations own mind; it was long enough for him to approach the window, for him to gape in astonishment. What happened? How did this happen? One arm wiped at the blood on his face, then lifted to brace against the windowsill, while his other hand still clutched at his chest, the pain that refused to leave him be. He was already aware that he would have to endure the pain until this accident was addressed.

'_What's going on?! Was that a bomb? Oh God, we're trapped. What do we do? I don't know. Get on the phone, call 911. There's so much smoke I can't find the phone. Keep looking! Somebody break the windows. It's so hot. The building's on fire. Do you smell that? What is that? What are you talking about, there's nothing but smoke! We have to get out of here. Please, please, please, somebody help, somebody help. Let's get out of here! We have to get out! It's burning! It's burning! Get down the stairs, now! I can't! I can't! It's blocked! The fire is getting closer, try to find a way out! No, no, go back! Go back! I'm so afraid.' _

"Ugg..," the nation uttered a pained groan against his own will, letting his forehead rest against the glass as he squeezed his eyes shut. The voices, the voices and cries of his people, and all of the panic that came along with it; it hurt his head just to listen. It tore at his very heart and soul.

'_What was that? Did you see that? Yeah, there's was an explosion. Look, the building is on fire. Yeah, the world trade center. Was that a bomb? Someone said they saw a plane. Yeah, it was a plane, a commercial airline. Can you imagine what the people in the building feel like right now? They must be going crazy, they must be terrified! Oh, I'm sure there are hundreds dead.'_

"Please," the blonde male groaned, not yet opening his eyes, not wanting to face what he knew he would see, "one at a time, at least." He wasn't sure how he expected to sort any of this out, as it all jumbled into his mind at once, as the people of New York turned appalled and frightened eyes upward.

Again, the distressed nation covered his ears, trying to blot out the noise. The feelings were enough to jar him, to leave him shaking. It all came in a burst, which flowed into a steadily growing stream, beginning with those in the planes, those in the towers, to the people in the streets of Manhattan, to the whole of New York, and outward in a rush. People at work heard the newsflash, confused children sat staring in masse, taking in an event they barely could comprehend, and the rest all had just barely begun their morning, just to see this horror unfolding on their television, calling their relatives, discussing this accident, every person as dumbfounded as all the rest.

And just like that, all eyes throughout the nation were watching this event unfold.

America felt that he finally pressed his hands so tightly against his ears that he was able to blot out the noise of his people all wondering what had happened. He opened his eyes to look out over the city, his hands falling at his sides as, at last, he heard nothing but the eerie sound of silence. He was watching the world through a pane of glass, removed from it all, a soundless fantasy...

...until a ringing chime broke the hanging silence. It broke through the country's tortured mind and it shattered the figurative glass pane before him, taking away the picture with its ceaseless ringing, ring, ringing.

The country suddenly opened his blue eyes to the dull blur of his apartment. He opened his eyes to find that his relived horror was just a flashback of the unconscious mind, one that he was particularly glad he hadn't slept through until the end.

Entirely too groggy to even move properly, the blonde male made some graceless attempts to grab at the source of the ringing that had woken him; his cellphone. Fingers blindly searched the surface of the bedside table, at last successful in locating the ringing, vibrating nuisance.

Rolling onto his back, America flipped open the small cellular device, and placed it against his ear.

"Yeah?," America uttered in a groggy tone as he answered the phone, unable to disguise the fact that he'd just been asleep. He caught a glance at the clock on his bedside table- yeah, it was 11am. He shook his head in disappointment, but couldn't deny he'd been exhausted lately.

"You are still in bed aren't you?," came the chastising voice of China, a voice that America had come to severely dread, "I know what time it is there. That's your problem. You are lazy."

"What do you want?," the blonde male groaned in a tired tone, moving one arm over his face as though he could blot out the rest of the world.

"What do I want?," China exclaimed in reply, "I want you to pay back the billion of dollar you owe me. What do you think?"

"Yeah, well, I don't really have it at the moment, so calling me about it is a lost cause," America continued to groan, though his tone was steadily gaining an irritated edge.

"I should get on the phone with Japan," China threatened, though he spoke in a mockingly pleasant voice as he did so, "It's looking like we are going to be splitting you in half soon, so we'll need to discuss who gets Western half and who gets Eastern half."

"Oh yeah?," America responded, the offense now plain and clear, "Well, go ahead. Call him up and both of you forget my number, okay?"

Here, China laughed, then spoke, "I'll forget your number and show up on your doorstep."

America sighed, though it was partly a groan, the replied, "Look, you'll get the money. You just have to be patient. The economy is crap right now."

"You always say that, but I've been waiting for you to produce the money for a pretty long time, and you still haven't. Maybe if your people would stop indulging their greed so often. Maybe if you had a tighter hold on them."

"Don't tell me how to run my place," America blurted in finality before stabbing the 'end call' button with all of the force his thumb could muster without breaking the phone. He found himself surprised that he didn't hear it crack, since he wasn't even fully awake, but he was already fully infuriated.

The groggy country folded the phone closed before setting it aside and pulling himself upright. He hadn't even gotten around to placing his feet upon the floor, though, when the phone began to ring again, assuredly China dialing him back despite the obvious sign that America was unwilling to speak with him about the debt. (It likely wouldn't take long for America to wish he actually had broken the phone.)

Yet, as horrid as it had been, the nightmare America had previously been enduring gave him some will to ignore the hellish chime of his phone, if only by means of distracting his mind with reflection. At that time, that horrible time of tragedy, he'd been so morose and perhaps he still was. He hated thinking about that day because it made him sick. He'd endured a lot of tragedies in his time, but this one was fresh in his mind, while his memories concerning the others had grown ..vague. He tried to put everything from his mind as he pulled himself from his bed and began to dress himself, so to face the rest of the day.

Still, he couldn't help but continue mulling over the dream. It was a tragedy, no doubt, but from the ashes and sorrow that resulted was a sudden burning sense of unity, of duty and perhaps some fraction of something darker..vengeance. Part of him had been burning for vengeance and all he wanted was to absolutely destroy whoever was responsible for that monstrous act. He knew he was capable. He had the strength to tear other nations apart. He was raring to get at whoever had marred his home, destroyed his buildings, his planes, and the lives of so many of his people. And though he wouldn't admit it, in the wake of all the emotions he struggled to keep hidden away, he'd done some things that were monstrous; even worse, he'd delighted in it.

Even so, he was still bitter; he had this burning feeling in the back of his mind that, even after all these years, he still hadn't gotten the closure he desired. For some reason, the strangest prickle in his mind had begun to tear away at him, and he started to wonder if perhaps the dream was meant to remind him of things he'd forgotten..

His phone was still ringing, and when at last he couldn't ignore it any longer, he picked it up, harshly growling into the small mechanical device, "China, I thought I said I would pay you, now will you please stop calling me?!"

"Um.. Alfred?," came the sound of a soft, nervous voice from the tiny speaker rested near the livid country's ear.

"...Matthew?," he questioned, suddenly losing the overwhelming tone of pure aggression that had overtaken him before.

"...yeah, sorry," the person on the other end uttered hesitantly, "..should I call back later?," he asked nervously, awkwardly.

"No," America answered in a distinct, almost demanding fashion, "what is it?," he questioned.

"..You asked me to come over today to help clean out some of the junk you had in storage. I was just calling in advance," Canada gently reminded his brother.

"Oh... right," the elder country muttered, nonchalant and rather unconcerned, "I forgot about that."

"You...," Canada began, hesitating momentarily, reluctant to make light of his sibling's flaws as it was clear to note that over the span of less than a decade, America had grown temperamental and isolated, "..always forget things lately.'

"Yeah?," the older country acknowledged, seemingly relatively calm, which Canada was grateful for, "..Well, you know. I have a lot of my mind, as always."

"So, do you still want me to come over?," Canada inquired, also a bit calmer in his demeanor as he asked, since his brother had maintained a decent mood despite the awkwardness that came with the situation Canada obviously disturbed in calling.

"Yeah, of course, bro," America assured, "cleaning is always a pain but I could use some company, I guess."

The elder nation couldn't see it, and likely lacked the intuition to hear the soft smile that had upturned his brother's lips on the other end of the line, but regardless, Canada smiled to himself, his own spirits brightened at hearing even a shred of his brother's old self, audible in the relaxed nature of his tone and manner of speaking.

"Alright," Canada answered, before a soft click from his end of the line signaled his having hung up.

..and while America continued to ready himself for the day, a distance away, his younger sibling gently set down the telephone receiver upon the metal hook that depressed beneath the weight. (Matthew had a cell phone, of course, but he kept an old fashioned telephone for his home line, simply for the nostalgia and out of respect for the history that lay behind him, as short as it might have been in comparison to his peers.)

He stood staring at the old fashioned phone, contemplating the conversation that had just passed between himself and his brother. It was almost incomprehensible to think that America, who had become so detached from the rest of the world, actually wanted the company of anybody else at all. Canada stood quietly hoping that this was some sort of sign that his brother may soon come out of his solitude and the embittered, volatile attitude that had all but consumed him.

:: ::

"So why are you getting rid of all this?," Canada asked, inquisitive and overall pleasant as he turned his countenance from the pile of 'rubbish' that the two nations had carefully sorted, to his elder sibling. The soft waves of his blonde hair swished and tickled at his cheeks as he turned to America, casting a most innocently curious sort of gaze in his sibling's direction.

"There's really no need for me to take up more than one storage unit," America answered in a nonchalant tone, dutifully rummaging through one last box, though not giving its contents nearly enough attention, considering the size of the cardboard container. Then, in an effortless motion, the elder nation grasped the bottom of the box and lifted it up, carrying it over to the junk pile. The muscles of his strong, broad shoulders tightened in an apparent way, not as much due to the physical effort as it was that he'd only thrown on an old sleeveless shirt for this task. As he finished moving the box, he turned his framed eyes in Canada's direction, and elaborated further on his previous answer, "I get charged for that each month, ya' know?"

"Well...," the younger of the two, meanwhile, blinked and refocused, trying to disguise the fact that he'd come to notice quite a few harsh scars peeking out from beneath his brother's shirt; his arms had scars as well, but his uncovered shoulders almost seemed as though they withstood some rather vicious battering, as though his flesh had been tattered like the delicate pages of an old book on a forgotten shelf, "yeah, I could figure that much out... It's just that a lot of these things are pretty valuable antiques. I hope you're not just planning to throw it all away," he at last managed words, and to disclose what was his original point.

America merely shrugged as he studied the pile he and his brother had created after a few hours of effort, "I was planning to take it all out to the garbage, yeah.. but I guess if you think it is worth something, though, maybe I can donate it or something," he spoke with uncertainty or perhaps just the hesitance that came with apathy, but turned his gaze to meet his brother's, welcoming his council, since America had little opinion.

Canada nodded and smiled softly, speaking up in simple proposal about the items as his brother's expression seemed to suggest he was waiting for, "That's a reasonable idea.. Some of this even seems museum-worthy. It's almost too valuable to just end up with some collector."

A chuckle foretold the elder nation's lack of serious regard for what Canada was telling him, and he muttered, "You're kidding, right?"

"No way," the younger of the two North American nations replied in complete seriousness, and perhaps a subtle hint of indignance, "Most of it is more than 200 years old. I know that doesn't mean much to you or me, but you know to mortal humans, this is all history. Something they, themselves, weren't part of."

Somewhere in the middle of Canada's explanation of his reasoning, America just rolled his eyes in irritation. He was telling himself that this mess was all just trash, and his brother was just making a nuisance of himself. Really, it had more to do with the elder's indifference and laziness; still, he batted his hand at his brother and just agreed in order to get Canada off his back. (Metaphorically, of course.) "Alright, alright. I'll look into it. Geez', Matt, you've just gotta' make cleaning out the storage more of a pain in the ass than it was meant to be."

There was a short pause between the brothers; Canada decided to peek through the box America had moved to the junk pile, observing much more carefully and treating the items with a much more delicate, respectful touch. America, meanwhile, was making honest attempts to slowly sip at a bottle of Coke that he'd stuck a straw in; if he drank more than one, Canada was sure to bitch at him in some faint and subtle manner that the elder just couldn't stand.

Finally, the younger of the two raised his framed gaze from the box to his brother, and spoke up ever so politely, quiet and careful not to provoke his sibling's irritability, "I hate to bother you about it, but-"

"Then don't, Matt," America quickly cut in, putting his hand up at Canada, "don't."

Canada hesitated, but decided to temper his brother's stubbornness for the sake of what was more important than America's immediate comfort, "...are you sure you don't want to hold onto some of these things for a bit longer?," he posed, continuing in a tone that was clearly sincere, "..you're giving them up like they're nothing. Shouldn't there be some sort of sentimental value to them?"

Placing his soft drink back upon the narrow rail were it had been waiting previously, America sighed and returned to where he'd placed the box, glancing back down into the cardboard container, letting himself observe again what his brother had also closely examined. An old military uniform, rolled into a near-indistinguishable blue and white ball, a cracked and rusted bullet-mold, an oil painting on a decrepit-looking canvas (that he deciphered from a glance must have been of him from long ago) and a box of wooden soldiers that one could hardly tell any longer that they had been painted individually, since they were so faded; these were the things that rested on top in any case.

"..nah." America declared without very much more thought on the matter, "Really, I don't even remember where I picked up any of this junk. Must have been forever ago."

"...it might have been a long time, but I don't think it was long enough for you to have completely forgotten. Are you sure you don't recall even a few things?"

"Nope," came the elder's quick response, not thinking anything of it.

"...Alfred," Canada uttered shyly, his words as slowly thoughtful and tentative as usual, "..I can't help but think that.. maybe you have some sort of problem."

"A problem?," the older male reacted in surprise and doubt; how could he, the United States of America, have some sort of problem? It was ludicrous to even consider, and so he just scoffed and brushed it off, "come on.."

"You're forgetting things a lot lately," Canada now insisted without very much hesitance, if only because his voice was laden with concern, "you can't even remember the significance of your treasured items."

America momentarily hesitated, but only because he was inwardly wondering what gave Canada the notion that any of this garbage had ever been treasured items. After a few seconds, the older male just shrugged his shoulders. "A lot of time has passed. Things just naturally become fuzzy. It isn't a problem."

The younger of the two pressed his glasses up the bridge of his nose before he crossed his arms at his brother; this was something of a sign that he suddenly meant to get serious. "Do you remember your day of Independence?," he asked with clear doubt in his tone.

"Well yeah," America answered in a tone that was both oddly offended and astounded that Matt could even think he was that stupid. "It's July 4th. Duh."

Canada just shook his head in refusal of this answer, but didn't move otherwise as he spoke up in reply, "I'm not asking you what day you celebrate every year. I'm asking if you remember specifically what happened on that day, the reason why you celebrate it, and what about the three days prior to the fourth? And do you remember the year that all this occurred? Tell me you remember."

And suddenly, beyond his own expectations, the older of the two nations realized that he truly didn't have an answer to any of his brother's questions. For that one second, he was aghast over it, yet.. just as he'd said before, of course it had gotten hazy in his memory, it was so very long ago. He was sure he could probably read about it, and expect the memories to resurface, as plain and clear as though they were just yesterday. "...why does that matter?," he asked in an irritated and tired tone.

"It matters a lot," Canada quietly and persistently assured his foolish brother, "It's important, or at least it should be. You went from a collection of colonies to a full-fledged nation, and you didn't do so without struggle either." The younger male took a step closer to his brother, concern in his eyes as he looked his sibling in the face, imploring America's honesty and humility if such a thing were even possible, if only because Canada cared so much. Amicable and filled with sympathy, Canada spoke up most softly yet his words still rang heavy and melancholy. "You don't remember at all, do you?"

Not wanting to be forced to bear the look he knew his brother was giving him, America did not answer, and kept his head turned away, somehow feeling he could hide himself in this moment, by simply pushing it all away. That was how he'd learned to deal with things that caused him discomfort. Canada was much more patient than he was, however, and the younger male waited out the moments of his brother's pouting, then finally reached up to tangle his fingers in the material of the older male's sleeveless shirt, giving it a tug that got America's attention, regardless.

Indeed, America was forced to turn his eyes to meet his brother's, to acknowledge his sibling's concern, and to answer him. "I have it all written down," he declared, again casting off the notion of any of this being of great importance, hiding the shame he'd been forced to feel as Canada, of all people, steadily pushed the harsh reality on him; he was flawed.

"America..," Canada just barely breathed his brother's true name, perhaps in secrecy or because of their close proximity, or maybe because it was all he could muster, "You really can't remember?" The way he asked, it was as if he were just confused, or he assumed that his elder was playing some sort of twisted game with him. The reality that his older brother's mind was truly a blank in regards to his own past, it was jarring somehow.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Canada spoke up further in the wake of his brother's unusual silence. "Even I remember things from that time. I remember your attempted invasions in great detail," the younger nation reflected, an annoyed edge to his voice that had maybe been contempt, once upon a time. "What about your Committee of Five?," Canada questioned in a way that sounded more like a suggestion; something he was sure America recalled. "Do you remember what they did? John Adams, Roger Sherman, Robert Livingston, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson?"

Once more, America just blinked, glancing to the side in intense thought, pushing himself along some kind of visual backward timeline in his head, finding that after a while he hit massive patches of blank, until there was nothing; nothing at all. Still, he couldn't let the armor that was his immense pride crumble around him, and he just answered in a purely apathetic sort of state, "Well, yeah.. their names are familiar."

"You really don't remember any of that," Canada outright declared, not fooled by his brother's act, though his words certainly weren't those of a rival nation, but of a concerned sibling, worried for his closest family, "Alfred, you have a real problem."

Finally growing tired of this nonsense, or perhaps unwilling to allow his brother any closer concerning what apparently was a greatly troubling issue, America pushed his brother back, not wanting to discuss this any further. "No, I do not have a problem!,' he sharply declared, his tone hostile and overall bitter.

"I'm just worried about you," Canada hissed in return, trying to sound determined and serious, though the worry in his tone still betrayed his softer nature. He would not be deterred, or intimidated by his brother's anger, however, and he hardened himself for the challenge that came with speaking his mind and hoping America would choose to understand. "Maybe you should try to see around your pride for once and actually care about what's important."

"What did you just say?," the elder snapped, his eyes quickly turning to focus on his brother, the indignation becoming instantly apparent from the way the skin wrinkled between the older male's brows; as well, whenever America was angry, Canada had noted, that often he still smiled, but his true feelings were always distinguishable in how the blue of the older male's eyes turned cold and steely, as though they were made of emotionless ice. This was the case presently, minus the smile that usually disguised his anger.

Canada sighed, aware that there was nothing more he could say to get through to his brother now that he'd reached this point. Words of reason rarely filtered into America's head, and even rarer were they fully comprehended; Once the older nation was pushed to fury, he was impenetrable. "Nothing," the younger male relented, "Just forget it."

"I guess I probably will, won't I?," came the elder's resentful, sarcastic remark in response.

Yet Canada did not resign himself to letting America feel as though he'd 'won' some sort of struggle, and with just as much irritation, the younger nation did not hesitate to throw out his own little quip in retort, "Probably."

"You know what?," the elder harshly growled as he glared at his sibling, "Just go home. I don't need your help anyway, and I was stupid to think I needed your company."

"Fine," Canada quietly uttered, his voice delicate and hurt. He refused to show any fear in front of his temperamental brother, though, also not wanting to give America any notion that he was retreating or that he was threatened. He walked nearer to the older nation and around him, showing America his back as he reached for the last box the elder had moved into the junk pile, and Canada lifted it just as easily as his brother had. "..but I'm taking this," he stated as he looked over his shoulder at America.

The younger of the two didn't wait for permission; he left without another word.

:: ::

It was quite some time after Canada had left that America at last found himself somewhat satisfied with the partial completion of the chore he'd set out to accomplish earlier. The country's troublesome sibling succeeded in making the task that much more difficult by somehow convincing America that he needed to take consideration into where he put his garbage.

At first, in his anger, America had dutifully gotten through dumping more than half of the pile into the garbage bin he'd brought near the storage unit for this exact purpose, his spite carrying him quite far before guilt began to set in. It was at that point that the blonde male forced himself to empty the trash and carefully sort through the junk all over again, so that what he was sure was worthless was placed back into the trash, and what he thought could be used for the historical value, he created a separate pile for.

Once this was finally complete, the nation made a few calls to local museums and managed to find homes for his old belongings. He supposed his brat of a younger brother had been right, because the people who responded to America's requests to donate possibly valuable historical items reacted to many of the things he contributed as if they'd won some kind of grand prize lottery. They thanked him in an almost astounded fashion, hardly able to believe that such a 'devout collector' could part with such 'treasures', whereas he'd hoped they would just gather the mess up and get on their way.

He supposed it pleased him to be of some sort of assistance, so he reassured himself with the notion of this being a good deed, even if it had been more work.

It was well beyond dinnertime when America managed to feed himself, which was certainly not an improvement to his mood, so now it felt that the day had slipped through his fingers yet he was exhausted, as usual.

The distraught nation sighed, perched on the edge of his mattress, his elbows on his knees and his head in his palms; he couldn't even fully grasp what had gotten under his skin, whether it was his brother or something else. All he knew was that something was troubling him, something he was unable to comprehend.

Glancing over at the nightstand beside his bed, America reached for his cellular phone, a spontaneous urge to contact somebody coming over him, and before he was even sure of what he meant to say, he was dialing another nation.

He made one call; no answer. He made another call; no answer. He continued, going through the entirety of his phone's memory of other numbers, of other countries that he knew, unable to find one single person willing to pick up the phone. (The only person he didn't attempt to call was China; he was sure that he would probably pick up, only to demand money.)

Disallowing frustration to set in and deter him from getting in touch with somebody, he went back through the directory, from the end of the alphabet, back toward the top, until he came to Britain. Surely America could get him on the phone. Surely. He wasn't sure if he was as close to Britain as he was some others, nor was he sure if he could carry on in a friendly manner with him, but if anything, Britain would answer.

Selecting Britain's entry, America pressed the dial button, and the phone input the chosen number. America raised his cellphone to his ear, listening with as much patience as he could muster to the slow, steady ringing sound, certain that in between each ring that he would hear the other end of the line click as it was picked up, and Britain's voice would follow in greeting. Yet for all the fortitude America put forth in listening to the maddening sound of the phone dialing, it eventually went to voicemail, and his call went unanswered.

This didn't just come as a surprise to the almighty, unignorable America, but it also came as an annoyance as well as an insult. In his frustration, he became immediately determined not to give up on this endeavor until somebody picked up their phone. Again, he dialed Britain's number, only to be redirected to the voice mail yet again, and so he immediately hung up and redialed the number again. He would drive the older nation batshit crazy if he had to, in order to get him on the phone; it was a lesson he'd learned quite well from China.

On his third try, somewhere in the middle of the fifth ring of this particular attempt, it finally happened; somewhere, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, a ringing phone finally broke another nation's reserve and he answered the call.

"What do you want?," the older nation barked into the receiver, the sound of pure irritation perhaps more apparent than even his words; America instantly pulled the phone from his ear by a few inches in response to the sudden volume.

The sullen younger nation supposed he'd been wrong in expecting a simple 'hello.' He placed the phone back at his ear, and spoke up in an entirely apathetic tone, as if he were suddenly disinterested in speaking despite the struggle he'd been through to get somebody to pick up, "Nice to hear from you, too."

"Tell me, what time is it there?," England asked, the anger having vanished from his voice, or else it was masked incredibly well beneath the genteel and proper sound of his enunciations.

"Hm?," America looked over at his alarm clock, "around 10:30pm, why?"

"And what time will it be in five hours?," England once more posed an unexplainable question, though the younger nation was almost sure he could hear some subtle hint of sarcasm surfacing in the older country's tone.

Regardless, America unconsciously switched the phone from his right hand to his left for the sole purpose of performing another unconscious gesture; as he counted in his head, he bent each of his fingers as if he were counting on them or just using this as a method of aiding him against losing count somehow. "3:30 am," he answered.

"Do you mind if I call you back then?," the older nation asked in an oddly pleasant tone, though that sarcasm was still hiding just beneath the surface.

"I'll probably be in bed by then," America answered, having taken the last question seriously, not yet catching on to the purpose of these questions.

"Exactly," England hissed into the phone, grumbling momentarily before picking up with an explanation in the case that America still hadn't realized his blunder. "You do realize that there is a significant time difference between us, right?"

"Oh," America answered, treating his mistake as if it was of no real consequence, "no, I forgot. My bad."

"Then could you kindly get to the point of this obscenely ill-timed phonecall?," the older nation retorted, no longer withholding that he was thoroughly exasperated.

This was where America hesitated, because he hadn't had any point in calling at all. He was simply reaching out into the abyss that he'd cloaked himself in for so long, blindly hoping that somebody out there might come to grasp his hand, even if he was unaware why this was. "...You and I fought a long time ago," the younger nation finally uttered, the words seeming to form themselves just as they rested on his lips, "..is that why you're always so pissed at me?"

"...What?," the older nation managed to ask after a momentary silence, the silence produced when his newly wakened mind was suddenly burdened with questions that were unexpected and heavy, and pulled straight from some sort of fathomless whim; it was incredibly awkward to say the least. "..America," England uttered, his tone tired and lacking enough patience for the younger nation's capriciousness.

"Just answer," America demanded, though in a way that expressed some sincere desire for an answer, rather than it being simple selfish insistence.

England sighed, but relented, "That was over 200 years ago. It's just plain ignorance on your part to assume I'd hate you solely for that reason."

"You're not mad?," the younger country asked, a touch of confusion becoming meshed with an equally subtle trace of hope, "..does that mean you've forgotten what happened, then?"

Perhaps that brat, Canada, had gotten into his head more than he was previously aware, but America sat waiting for the older country's response, sure that Britain would tell him he didn't recall their fight in full detail. He was sure Britain would say the struggle barely existed in his memory at all. He was sure. Well, he hoped.

"Of course I haven't forgotten. I remember it like it was yesterday, thinking on it now.." England answered, shattering the fortitude of the other country's mind without even knowing how easily he'd done so, "..but that doesn't mean I still bear any resentment for that one reason. Realistically, the way I treated you back then was perhaps unkind, but it was only because I needed your help and I thought you cared enough that I didn't have to ask. I had expected some sort of loyalty or gratitude from you, and you turned your back without any remorse. I've never been too proud to admit that I might have been partially in the wrong, but even after all this time, your pride has you touting the victory as if you really fought me at my proper strength or without help, and you've never once acknowledged that maybe you'd acted unacceptably as well."

He did remember it. He remembered the events, his thoughts, his feelings, the broken expectations, the broken bonds; how could he remember it so well, if America couldn't say the same?

"..Britain," America spoke up somberly, calling quietly out to the one of the other end of the line.

"What is it?," came the older nation's voice in question, his irritation fading into worry at how unusual America was acting.

"...why did we fight?," the younger male asked, his question so unbelievable that the honesty in his tone was contradictory, confounding.

England hesitated again, unable to fully grasp a reason for America to ask him such a question, or that this was all America even had to say after the older nation had confided in him. "...Why do you think?," he asked, suddenly thinking old feelings of resentment were resurfacing, for being dragged out of bed by his ringing phone, for being wholly disregarded, and for the simple fact that America was just so utterly foolish.

"I wanted... my freedom," he answered, though his words were drained of his usual brand of vibrance, his jubilant spirit, his heart.

"Do you think you're any more free now than you were then?," the older nation questioned.

"...What do you mean?," came America's confused response, fully aware that he was missing something, something other than his memories.

"If you can't even remember why you didn't see yourself as free then, you've made yourself incapable of comparing the past to the present. How could you even know if things have gotten better?," England explained, grasping for the last shred of patience he had within himself so early in the morning.

"...Britain," America again whispered the other nation's name, sounding as somber and lost as he had before as he continued to speak, "..why would nobody else answer their phones?"

England sighed, but he answered, his tired and scornful words reflecting just how much of a nuisance America had become, just in one simple phonecall, "...maybe because it's early and you were too stupid to realize that.. and maybe because, in your ignorance, these sorts of blunders are common enough to be expected from you, and you never realize, and probably don't even bother remembering if you do."

"Alright, fine," America answered, though of course nothing at all was fine, "Bye." He didn't bother waiting for the other nation to speak up in response. He ended the call with one push of a button and put the phone aside.

Full of unrest, the isolated nation let one hand brush slowly through his blonde hair before he stood from the edge of his mattress and ambled a short distance to his washroom so that he might shower before crawling into bed to sleep.

Not bothering to shut the door behind him, knowing that he was perfectly alone in his home, America quietly began to remove his clothes; first he pulled the sleeveless shirt over his head, and tossed it toward a hamper tucked into the bottom of an alcove for shelves, though the shirt missed the opening and messily flopped onto the floor. The country's pants and boxers quickly followed, and as the young male stood bared, he reached out to open up the door of his glass shower, and turned on the tap, rotating the single nob to a hot setting, just to make sure the water warmed up rapidly.

Closing the door as he waited, America warily turned his head to look over his shoulder, catching sight of himself in the mirror that hung above his bathroom sink; this was a sight he had developed some sense of dread in facing, and perhaps he was even ashamed at this point, yet still he found himself turning around to look at himself, his naked flesh, which was marred by a web of scars. He took a few steps closer, observing his tattered frame in greater detail, tracing with his eyes each long, jagged mark, and even the hair-thin lines that netted mercilessly between the more obvious of the eyesores.

These scars; America was unaware of precisely where they came, or how he so haply obtained them, despite how very numerous they were upon his flesh, now that he was forcing himself to look. He was certain to some degree that these were the unnecessary losses of his innocent people, the morose heart of his home that had been hurt by outside threats, battle scars left over from wars that might have scraped him up but.. he was sure it had all been for the best.. so he swallowed his pride and forced himself to deny his shame, his wounded vanity.

..and yet, he could not escape the sudden impression that all these injuries were for naught, and that he was the only one in the world who had yet to reach some epiphany, to unveil some horrid secret. He had this horrible feeling, eating away at the back of his mind, but he didn't think there was anything he could do about it. He saw himself reflected, the soul of a nation, the heart of a people, slowly tearing apart at the seams, slowly but surely dying. But if he withered until nothing more was left of him.. what would be left of his home, his people?

As the mirror began to fog in the steam that was now wafting from the shower like the great cloud of fog that had befallen the wounded nation's mind, he removed his glasses, placed them down on the counter, and proceeded into the shower, wishing he could just wash away his problems in the sting of the tap.

:: ::

"Hm?," a young brunette woman looked up from behind her glasses, green eyes catching sight of a familiar figure as he walked through the door, escorted to the threshold by armed government officials. "Hello, Mr. Jones," she greeted him in a welcoming tone, yet not sounding so sunny that she lost her own official edge.

"Yeah," the country spoke up in response, "hey."

America observed the secretary in a near-vacant fashion, his mind too full of questions and uneasiness to even maintain the pretense of regular, friendly social interaction. He couldn't be bothered, all he could really come to focus on was that this woman, who was always here when he visited, must have been in her thirties and was probably overly qualified for the job she did, but that was necessary since her position was of such great importance and such a great risk if she lacked some nerve underneath her own sweet facade.

Her emerald eyes seemed to study him in an analytical fashion behind her own glasses. The chocolate-colored bangs that hung neatly around her face where pinned precisely into place, as precise as the neckline of her shirt, which dipped just low enough that only the faintest shadow of the crevice that was her cleavage showed; it wasn't enough that she wasn't professional, but enough to be provocative and mysterious.

"Can I get you something, Mr. Jones?," she asked in that same pleasant tone, her fake smile off-setting her somehow maliciously observant gaze; she was probably noticing that Alfred wasn't dressed in any sort of formal fashion, but rather in just a pair of jeans, a tee-shirt, and a jacket that was zipped only a bit more than halfway. "I can call somebody from the cafeteria and ask them to prepare anything you'd like."

"No," America sharply declined, not wanting to let himself be distracted from his purpose in coming. "I just wanna' speak with the big guy."

"Very well," she replied, maintaining her mask of professional friendliness, despite that the visitor to her boss's office was clearly in a rut that effected his mood negatively, "he isn't with anybody presently. He was doing some paperwork, but he always has time to speak with you, Mr. Alfred."

The secretary pressed the button of a panel on her desk. It began to flash and she stated, 'sir, Mr. Alfred is here to see you.' A buzzing noise followed almost immediately, opening the door that led into the office of the man America had come to pay a visit to, hoping for some answers to his recent worries.

As he proceeded into the strangely shadowed room, he heard the dark, gruff voice of an older, mortal man, the man he'd come to speak to. He spoke up in a warm tone, his sweet old voice like that of a kind father or grandfather, however, he still somewhat sternly referred to the nearby monitors that watched the reception area just outside his office as he acknowledged America's behavior previous to coming inside, "Why Alfred.. You seem unusually irritable today. Is something troubling you?," he asked, concerned for the embodied spirit of the nation he served.

"There is..something," America confessed, no, he confided, expecting guidance, trusting this man with everything, believing in this man's extensive wisdom.

"And that is?," came the old man's questioning reply.

"I'm tired," America quietly admitted, looking up at the man sitting behind the desk before him, seeing a faint glow that brought out a subtle silhouette of his features, yet it was difficult to distinguish.

"That would explain your mood, wouldn't it?," he spoke up, sounding almost darkly mischievous, though America was sure he'd been mistaken in thinking that.

"Maybe...," he answered, "...but what I wanted to say was that.. I'm done fighting. I don't have very much left to give and every day I'm filled with greater doubt.. Sometimes it feels like I've been at war for so long.. I don't even remember why I'm fighting or what I have to gain... or if it is greater than what I've lost. There's no point anymore."

The man on the other side of the desk did not answer immediately. He quietly deliberated on what his response would be, his thin lips slowly pulling into a wicked smile as he did so "...Now, now..," he spoke, his gravelly tone that of a wise elder addressing a foolish child, "why do I get the feeling that you're not being honest with me?"

"What?," came America's confused response, his voice quiet and surprised.

"You're lying to yourself, America," the old man stated, speaking as though his word was fact, "there's always more to gain, justice to be served, weak people to _help_.. and you know that your job is far from complete... plus you rather enjoyed participating in all the enhanced interrogations, if my memory serves me."

"That's not true!," America declared in response, some spark of his old passion rekindling, "the man we chased without rest is dead! He's gone! There are no more crimes that have befallen us that we need to see punished!"

The old man laughed, but managed to quiet his amusement as he spoke, "Yet parading the corpse of a fallen terrorist like a trophy still left you with a sense of closure that quickly crumbled like the hollow victory that it was, right? Killing one weak, worthless man hasn't sated you... you're so bloodthirsty."

"...I don't understand," the country muttered, letting his eyes stare at the ground before his feet as he lowered his head. He knew he was missing some piece to the puzzle of comprehension, or maybe a few even, but he wondered, was this man right? Was it really that his bloodlust was beyond quenching? 'No, no, no,' he told himself; he'd helped people. He helped broken people put themselves together out of charity, goodwill. He was a Hero. His people were Heroes.

Again, the old man just laughed at the poor, confused child before him, then spoke, "You should go back to your pretty apartment, keep looking down over your pretty home, and play with all of your pretty things and enjoy all the wonderful benefits we've reaped. Forget these silly questions. Forget these empty emotions. Forget all those suspicious whispers in the back of your mind and distract yourself with something nice... you have a lot of nice things to be grateful for, after all. Appreciate them and appreciate those who maintain order here... show some gratitude you foolish boy."

"No," America harshly denied the old man's suggestions, his head raising, his eyes snapping up to cast a cold, demanding glare, "no, there are things you're not telling me!"

"Alfred...," came the old man's most soothing tone as he sat watching his homeland's incarnation motionlessly flailing in his confusion. "Go home," he so compassionately suggested. America wasn't ready for the truth.

"I said no!," the blonde male again growled in reply, determined to have what he came for, "I want answers! I'm tired of being turned away or lied to!," he declared, pointing a finger of accusation at the shady man across from him.

The old man just shook his head, what was visible of his visage setting itself in a somber scowl, and he finally spoke in a stern, serious tone, "..I hope you realize that the answers will only serve as a painful wound that you will never be able to nurse back to health nor do anything about. You're better off forgetting we had this conversation before I proceed. Just leave in peace; you'll be happier that way. You'll be happier in ignorance and in silence. Trust me."

Stubbornly, the blonde male merely stood stock-still, rooted to the floor beneath his feet, and glaring at the man who sat before him, waiting for his answer, refusing to back down.

America was sure that a minute or two passed in silence; he was sure that the old man he'd looked to for guidance, the one who was proving he cared more to keep information cloaked in obscurity, was giving the nation an overly lengthy and unnecessary amount of time to back down.. But America refused, as he had so often in the past, or so he assumed this was his nature. Not even he could say so of himself any longer.

At last, the old man before the country sighed, sounding defeated, and he slowly spoke up, careful to pronounce each word carefully and precisely, "...I know you've forgotten the fine details of the wars you fought so long ago, and you likely never even committed every militant action to memory...but once upon a time, when your people were hurt and they suffered or your home was threatened or devastated by anything.. You suffered wounds and afflictions, all of which healed in time and left you without any physical reminders.. but now your body is a web of scars beneath your clothes, I'm sure.. This is because the wounds that cut the deepest, the ones that seek to remind you that they occurred, are the ones you do to yourself."

America's deep, blue eyes slowly widened as the old man spoke, his explanation only serving to further confound the nation. "What do you mean?," America asked, his voice as wary as it was bitter.

Laughing again at the nation's inability to come to his own conclusions, the old man at the desk momentarily leaned into his palm before he managed to stifle his laughter and look up once more from the shadows. He spoke up mockingly, "Why do I even bother speaking with you? You've grown too dull and uneducated to properly deduce what is plainly obvious. You're too wrapped up in entertainment and indulgences to realize the truth without it being stated for you, and you're naive enough to believe the constant stream of lies we've been feeding you."

"Then tell me the truth!," America demanded, raising his voice, only now becoming truly, passionately, angry.

"It's all a ruse, Alfred!," the old man confessed, perfectly aware that the foolish nation before him couldn't do anything with this information, even if he wanted to. He'd probably forget it soon, anyway. "That event that haunts you year after year, the pain and suffering, the terror and all your feelings of loss, we used all of that to feed your anger, your fury, because that is the perfect fuel for the perfect war machine that you are and always have been."

"What?," America asked, still livid, but too confused to focus his anger on anything at all. A war machine? What did this man mean in referring to him like that?

"Don't lean upon your ignorance; you make yourself look that much more foolish!," the old man chastised, though he was still quite plainly amused by this entire scenario, "What happened at that time was entirely provoked. And just as much, it could have been prevented, but instead..we allowed it. We allowed it for the sake of strategic interest. We allowed it because we needed something to get your people so damned angry that they'd become willing participants in a war of great necessity; after all, when faced with menaces who come to threaten and destroy the American way of life, your people join so perfectly hand-in-hand to combat whatever enemy they're directed toward. A strong force with big, empty heads that can be filled so easily with almost anything. It's perfect, really. So useful."

"...no," the blonde male vehemently denied, his voice a weak and whispered growl now that he'd finally begun to grasp at some semblance of the reality being set before him. Yet, even so, even despite his denials, his hesitance belied his disbelief, forcing even him to swallow the harsh and bitter truth.

"Don't play at innocence," once more, the old man chastised the foolish nation, "Don't think you can hate and blame us, when we've done this right in front of your face for years. The Lusitania? Pearl Harbor? The Gulf of Tonkin? 9/11? We have this strategy down to an art, but you chose not to notice the truth, so, for once, instead of directing your anger at forces beyond your control, perhaps you should simmer in the guilt, and mourn the losses you've suffered at the hands of your own stupidity... but don't bother thinking there is anyone who can console you... after all, it's also your own fault that everybody hates you as well," the old man finished off on a menacing note, his repugnance finally fully visible, his detest for the being before him remarkably transparent.

"...how dare you!," came the blonde male's quiet growl, his brow wrinkled in a deep scowl, his eyes casting a sharp and icy glare in the old man's direction. His fingers clenched into fists at his side, so tightly that his hands trembled, but the enraged nation couldn't help the pressure he applied as he imagined this man's neck snapping like a twig in his grasp. It would be so easy. He had trusted this man. His people had trusted this man and his colleagues, yet they had all been led astray by deceit so despicable, so warranting of death.

"...I.. I should..," America stammered, almost nervous beneath the immense weight of his rage, of what he felt he could do in this moment, even as the sly bastard sat across from him, smirking victoriously and unthreatened. The blonde male reached out, placing his hand on the corner of the desk that stood between the old man and him, and as though it were likened to a stack of papers, he shoved it aside, so that it slid across the floor with ease, splintering and bowing as it crashed into the wall.

With the desk no longer shielding the old man and his vulture grin, America advanced but a few steps, raising his hands, his naked fingers reaching out, as though he indeed planned to pry apart the brittle bones of the man's neck; but when it seemed his fingers were near enough to the man's flesh that he could feel his feeble bodily warmth, America stopped. It was at this moment that the man's smile broke into full laughter; he laughed in mockery, in triumph, and perhaps just a little out of pure superiority.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," the old man explained, his shadowed countenance glowering, yet he maintained his vile, victorious smirk, "you and all of your people, when faced with a problem, you think it can just be quashed, killed," he laughed, punctuating his own villainous mockery, before quickly continuing, "What a fool you are. I hope you realize this isn't some scheme of all my own doing. This is the ongoing rhythm that has been beating like a drum since your birth. It's your heartbeat, the thing that makes you so strong. And we're the doctors. We maintain that vibrancy, that strength," the old man allowed himself one more chuckle before he finally explained to the foolish _creature_ before him just why he was helpless and incapable of fulfilling his desire for blood in this instance, "Even if I were the only one aware of this, the only one responsible, you and I both know that you can't kill one of your own anyway."

America fought, trying his best to will his fingers to take hold, to grip, but it was as though he'd met with an opposing, invisible force, like magnets of the same charge, and no matter how hard he tried, there was nothing he could do; he drew back one arm, and took a single swing, a punch of frustration, yet again his hand stopped itself before striking the man.

With nothing more that he could do, America sharply turned on heel, turning to run away and he bolted toward the door, hearing the old man call his name out, demanding his attention as his hand rested on the door handle. The distraught nation turned to look back at the old man, watching as the vile, smirking serpent lifted a single finger and drew it across his lips to shush America like a fussing child. The room was lowly lit, and the blonde male's vision had blurred from the tears that had begun to sting in his eyes, but he saw regardless.

He was to remain silent, because nothing he did or said could change anything.

Hurriedly, he tore his way from the office, from the reception area, from the building, bypassing the security officials and surely causing a certain amount of trepidation and suspicion, but he was gone more quickly than anybody could even react. He dared not look back.

:: ::

The distraught nation tried his best to lock his thoughts away as he ran. He focused on the physical pain, letting it give him some sort of outlet; his chest ached and burned as he breathed deeply the cold air of the day, his eyes stung from the wind, his cheeks had chapped from the chill striking the wetness from where rebellious tears had managed to escape.

As America began around a curve in the sidewalk, ducking into the dank and must-scented darkness beneath a highway bridge, he slowed his pace but slightly. One hand reached up to pull his glasses from his face, holding tightly to them as his other arm was risen so to rub his jacket sleeve mercilessly against his damp eyes and pinkened cheeks. In the darkness of his momentarily sightless state, the rapid pace of his footsteps echoed loudly in his head, the sound bouncing against the highway bridge above, muddled by engines and car tires striking the bumps in the pavement. With all of this, the blonde male failed to hear the sound of anybody else approaching, and certainly not another person running wildly away in panic, so suddenly startled that they couldn't divert their path and crashed headlong into the fleeing nation.

America stumbled back, clumsily but with enough grace to keep himself on his feet, though his glasses managed to be thrown from his grasp. A quick survey of the sidewalk with careful fingers returned the aid of the frames to the blonde male's hands and he placed them back upon their usual perch.

Once his vision was restored, the nation found that he had crashed directly into another man. "I'm sorry," he quickly apologized for the mishap, though as he took a step nearer in order to help the man up, observation of the fallen mortal stopped America's forward movement. The man pulled himself up from the distinctly uncomfortable landing, his elbow supporting him as he managed to go from being flat on his back, to sitting half-upright. Fear and nervousness were plain to see in his eyes; his state of alarm was overall suspicious, but the fact that his face was concealed from his nose down with a bandana that was tied behind his head made it entirely obvious that this character was up to no good.

Blue eyes slowly moved from the dubious man to the cement that stretched out behind him, where a metal can of spray paint still rotated slowly on its side, having fallen and rolled out of reach when the man collided with America.

Glaring at the fallen man, feeling his anger still not subsided from his previous incident, America spoke up in a tone of hostility. "Just what are you up to?," he growled.

The man scooted fearfully back and climbed rather hastily to his feet in order to turn and flee, leaving the paint can in his immediate worry, taking off in the direction he'd come from. America gave chase without a single moment of hesitation, tailing him closely, easily able to keep pace in his determined fury. However, a flash of white captured the nation's attention from his peripheral, and his curiosity, his desire for answers to his questions, outweighed his wish to capture the fleeing suspect.

Coming to an abrupt halt, the nation's hurried footsteps shuffled then fell still and silent as he faced the surface of a massive pillar which served to hold up the bridge. Upon the great, gray expanse of cement was the answer to what that suspicious, fleeing man had been up to. Three words had been impulsively produced by the quick swipe of the fleeing man's hand, the lettering seeming to waver from the nervous tremble, the paint weeping down the upright surface.

'_End the Silence_'

America read the message, his deep blue eyes carefully studying each little stroke that had come together to produce these three simple words, and he debated the meaning of it in his mind before reading over it again. It didn't immediately hold any real weight in his thoughts, not even conveying anything of the smallest significance as the nation contemplated it.

He sighed to himself, reaching a single hand up to trace the words, to feel them beneath his bare fingertips, then he turned a regretful stare in the direction that the man had disappeared, wishing he could just ask for an explanation and expect an answer, a truthful one.

:: ::

There was a sound that was quietly resounding from one apartment, all the way down the dim corridor as the young nation counted the doors until he stood before his brother's. The soft thump of the bass, the mournful, melodious cry of the guitars, sad and anthem-like; it was music, which escaped just barely from behind the door, but was otherwise contained inside the apartment, where the undeniable source awaited.

The young nation rapped his knuckles against the heavy, metallic surface of the door, his hand forceful as it drummed, aiming to make enough noise to be heard over the music that just kept playing. '_We're living underneath the land of sorrow, I can hear the bombs rain down. And how do I explain there's no tomorrow, I can hardly make a sound._'

He waited, grasping easily to an immense amount of patience, though it faded easily as doubt began to convince him that his knocking could not be heard. A tentative hand reached for the door handle, and he pushed at it gently, experimentally, unaware if the door would be locked or not.

Surprisingly, the door relented against only one gentle push, and easily was cracked open, allowing the music to spill out more loudly than before. '_Dead silence. I think we can't escape, til' death do us part in the end.'_

'_They're marching up the main street as my heart beats, louder than machine gun fire. The sound of all the sirens sing like violins, rattling the cold barbed wire_,' the music continually sang, an ominous ring through the single narrow hallway that was the entranceway to the elder nation's home. Canada slowly found his way up the darkened hall, pausing at its mouth as it poured into the main cavity of the open-concept apartment. Not a single light was on, yet even through the darkest reaches of the cold, lightless home, the young country could still see his older brother standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows at the edge of his livingroom.

The light from New York City glowed around America's motionless silhouette, casting a blue, hazy sort of illumination throughout the living space, caressing the floors, and the sides of any object that sat facing the window. Canada continued over toward where he could see his brother standing, passing through the livingroom, between a couch and a coffee table where the radio responsible for the loud music was placed.

'_Dead Silence will come to rescue me when violence has took this world away_,' the radio declared just before Canada's reaching hand shushed the volume to a more suitably quiet level; his brother barely even flinched as the radio's voice was hushed.

"Alfred?," Canada called quietly to his sibling in worry. He'd originally returned because of the unresolved situation that occurred between them the last time he was here; he couldn't stand to let things remain as they were previously left, on such a negative note, yet it appeared his brother had taken a turn for the worst since then for reasons completely unknown to the younger nation. "Brother, what's bothering you?," Canada asked as he came to stand behind his brother, with a little more than an arm's-length of space between them.

At last, America moved from his still, silent, somber position, looking over his shoulder with a forced smile and he replied, "What are you talkin' about, bro? I'm fine!" The elder's words almost, _almost_ resembled the sing-song, spirited elation that was his state of being in the past, though now his tone was just a poor replication, fake and flat.

"Stop that..," Canada whispered, not approving of the attempt at deceit.

America had begun to raise his hand in added effort, perhaps to wave or to form the peace-sign gesture, as though it added to his mask, but he gave up immediately as it was made clear that his brother would not be fooled. Now, instead, his plastic smile faded into a melancholic expression, or perhaps it was seriousness or overall apathy, but regardless it certainly was not happy. The precise feelings that lay hidden beneath the nation's subtle expressions were more difficult to decipher, as only about half of his face was illuminated from the glow of the city lights outside.

"What do you want?," came America's voice, cold and full of contempt, as though he honestly didn't even want to hear the answer.

"The same thing I've always wanted," the younger male gently reassured, his voice a careful, quiet utterance, "I just want.. to help."

"No you don't," America sharply denied, his brow furrowing slightly as he glared. "You just want to be close enough to marvel when I burst into flames!"

"Don't say that!," the younger sibling hissed in return, not only shocked but offended as well, knowing that he'd been the only one to stay by America's side, even as his brother steadily evolved into the biggest douche imaginable.

"It's the truth!," America replied, refusing to relent, his anger fierce and desperate. "You've just been watching me claw my way down a slippery slope toward the fire for years and you -never- said anything! You never extended your hand to me in the past!"

"What?!," Canada gasped, astounded and appalled at his brother's behavior, at the derision in his words, and at the pure ignorance of them, especially since Canada had no idea what his brother was even talking about, seemingly just being made into a target for America to violently vent his own frustrations. "How am I ever supposed to help you? You don't even listen to me! You're too stuck on yourself to listen to anybody else! You're too absorbed in your own fractured pride and self-pity to think of anybody but yourself!"

The harsh but truthful words of the younger nation were forcibly cut off by the sound of America raising his arms and violently folding them against the glass of the window; it clearly was not enough to disturb the breakable pane, but it was enough to startle Canada into flinching and falling silent. The elder's head fell forward, so that his forehead bumped audibly against the cold glass; he looked so defeated, so broken, like everything about him had been torn away and utterly destroyed. He was like some proud, powerful animal that had been caged and beaten, isolated and endlessly abused, so that now his spirit was shattered, and he was finally cornered, terrified and in pain, but enraged and violently unpredictable, dangerous.

Canada swallowed nervously, but gathered his courage, his trust, sure that no matter how frightening his brother seemed, America wouldn't raise his hand against him, at least not with any real intent to cause serious harm. He took just a few tentative steps nearer, careful to make sure that his shoes stamped audibly enough against the floor so that America was aware of him approaching. As the younger male came to stand at his brother's side, he looked upon the other nation, seeing that America had tucked his face into the crook of his raised arm, his blonde hair mussed and sticking against his forehead, wet from the slight condensation on the glass that America was pressed against, and even in the dark, the elder seemed to be trembling.

Seeing America like this drained even Canada's spirits. Sure, the elder nation could be an incredible bother, but witnessing even him without an ounce of vigor, collapsed beneath the weight of something that had steadily eaten its way into his very soul.. One had to question how anything could get to him to such a severe degree, especially knowing that he'd weathered the most grotesque and wasteful wars on top of the burdens of depressions, and seemingly limitless suffering. His positive outlook, his optimistic views, and his passionate striving toward bigger and better things, toward having the whole world look at him and acknowledge his greatness, it had all carried him so far, it pressed his ascension to greatness no matter the cost, yet here he stood as though there were nothing left for him, as though he had fallen to depths that he was incapable of escaping, and wounds he could never recover from.

"Brother..," Canada muttered, a fearfully concerned tremble to his voice, no longer expressing any desire to bicker with his sibling, but merely a sincere wish to aid him in some way, to offer him comfort, "what is it?," he asked, placing a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder.

The elder hesitated, looking determined to remain hidden in the crook of his arm so to disguise his shame and just ignore Canada's concerns. However, he eventually resigned himself to confessing his troubles, feeling that he couldn't keep them to himself without it destroying him that much quicker from the inside. "I've finally discovered the truth..," he spoke, his voice dully resounding in a most exhausted and broken tone, "the scars that I now have to hide from the world weren't caused by any threat outside my own boundaries, as I tended to foolishly believe.. no.. These are the scars of self-mutilation..."

America tightened his fists, seeming that much more tormented as he admitted aloud what it took him so very long to finally learn; hearing himself say it was just as painful as hearing it explained to him. Canada, too, found his hand dropping from his brother's shoulder in surprise, having never thought such information would filter past his brother's blind ignorance.

"..I see," Canada whispered, his voice quiet and somehow uneasy in his astonishment.

A chuckle of disdain escaped from behind the older male's lips as they pulled into the vilest smirk. "You knew all along," he stated, his voice full of derision.

Hesitantly, delicately, Canada answered his brother in honesty, knowing that he deserved to be told the truth, having lived a pitiful life of fabrication, of pretense. "It was so obvious," the younger male breathed, somehow ashamed of himself in this moment.

"But you were silent," America stated, scornful, maybe even hateful, though he lacked the vigor it took to properly hate anybody presently.

Shaking his head, Canada tried to deny that his brother's situation was any fault of his own. It wasn't; Canada wasn't responsible for his brother, nor had America ever given the younger nation any indication that he had any right to tell him how to live his life, how to watch over his home and his people. Still, the younger male couldn't help the guilt that threatened to overflow inside him, because as a caring sibling, some part of him did point a scornful finger, and accuse him of just neglecting to acknowledge something he could have prevented, had he been more determined.

"You had blinders over your eyes..," Canada weakly explained, though he spoke without deceit, "I couldn't have shown you the truth."

As though he weren't even listening, still completely wrapped up in himself, unable to focus on anything else at this point, the older nation moved his head slowly from side to side against his arm, though he continued to shake his head as his arm finally fell away, leaving nothing but his hand raised, bracing against the glass as America stared through the clear pane, focusing on his broken skyline, the wound and resulting anguish that had stared him in the face since that day, years prior to now. His eyes were glassy as he fought back his tears, and he chose instead to close them, to dam up his emotions as he spoke up in dread, "..It's over for me, Canada.."

"That's not true," the worried, younger sibling vehemently denied, more disturbed than ever at hearing his brother give up, at seeing him resign himself to destruction beneath the weight of his turmoil.

"Don't lie to me!," America demanded, "I understand it all now; the exhaustion, my fading memories, my tattered body.. I'm the spirit of a people being stifled, erased, until there's nothing left, until my existence just ceases to be... I'm dying, Canada, and all I can do is face my own mortality, all I can do is realize that I can't go on much longer, and resign myself to that."

"No..," the younger male whispered, not wanting to hear any of this. He refused to hear it, and he refused to allow his brother to give up, yet.. he had no idea exactly what he could do. He placed his hand gently on the other nation's shoulder again, the simple touch seeming to jar the older male from some melancholic trance. Dull blue eyes, washed of any life-like vibrance, were turned to look upon the younger nation, and Canada could see through them so clearly, America's resolve steadily crumbling. He simply ignored it, moving his hand from his brother's shoulder to his cheek, feeling his skin, cool and damp from old tears, and he spoke up in reassurance. "It's alright, I'm here, America..," came Canada's gentle voice, warm and comforting, to the best of his ability. "I believe in you. You'll pull through this, you just have to have faith in your people," he quietly consoled.

America moved his hand from the window, to rest overtop of the hand on his cheek, some part of him cherishing that at least one other nation had decided to remain by his side, even as it seemed his time was waning, and the eve of his demise grew only nearer. "Stay," he asked in a soft voice, imploring his brother with what sincerity he could manage.

The younger nation nodded without a moment of hesitance, and moved to wrap his arms around his sibling in a comforting gesture. And after so long buried in the elder's shadow, so long being the weaker brother, the unnoticeable one that lacked any shred of uniqueness, and feeling so small in comparison to America, it was suddenly so surreal and almost terrifying to find that America felt to be so small, so broken in this moment, so unlike himself.

..and it reminded Canada that without his older brother, as foolish as he might have been, he sat all alone in North America, which was a lonely, lonely thought. The younger male held his brother just a bit tighter as such a reality sank in, and uttered something that came to him in that moment.

"I'll stay, as long as you do, too."

:: ::

'_Whose gonna fight for what's right? Whose gonna help us survive? We're in the fight of our lives, and we're not ready to die. Whose gonna fight for the weak, whose gonna make them believe? I've got a hero living in me.'_

The tired nation took a deep breath, thinking it perhaps a miracle that he was awake and that it had been so long since he'd smelled the morning hour, or felt the dampness rising up from the bay. In careful, quiet observation, he watched with blurry eyes as things sprung to life below him, below his balcony where he stood, bare-chested, just waiting for the sun to peek over the skyline and warm his skin.

His azure gaze might have been dull, but he could still make out various apartment lights flickering on in the windows of the nearby buildings. He could hear the rough, gritty noise of windows opening, of people letting the steam from teapots and coffee-makers drift from the crevices. He could hear various doors open and shut, the sound of footsteps on the sidewalks below growing numerous, morning greetings, and perhaps some not-so-friendly exchanges. He took in the tempting aroma of local eateries and cafes beginning their morning preparations before opening their doors.

The people were coming out, going about their business, beginning their days, and even just watching a blur of this, America found himself smiling, quietly muttering, "They've all been asleep, but it's time to wake up."

He wouldn't dare deny the truth to himself; he was still exhausted, still feeling the fatigue of broken families, endless struggles outside his borders, and economic distress... but he felt he'd been given just enough strength to go on by his people, the ones he believed were still dedicated to making a difference. He reached deep inside himself, and it was there that he found a place that had been buried for so long, some place dark and secret that returned his strength to fight. He would resist the systematic weakening in his faith, and he would believe that his people could somehow prevail, when they finally opened their eyes and ended the silence.

'_I need a hero to save me now. I need a hero to save my life, a hero will save me just in time,' _the alarm clock was still singing in triumph when the moment finally came that the volume was adjusted, shushing the song and making the bubbling noisiness of the coffee-maker in the kitchen fully apparent. The sound of rustling blankets came soon after, then the calm, quiet padding of naked feet against the wood floor of America's bedroom.

Those soft footfalls continued until they stopped directly behind the blonde male out on his balcony, and warm fingers carefully reached out to him, being placed tenderly against his back, tracing the numerous scars in curiosity. He felt himself shiver at the touch, the warmth of this delicate appendage feeling so vibrant against his cold skin, and he turned to glance over his shoulder at the one who'd come to join him.

"..I had no idea there were..so many," came Canada's quiet, worried voice. He said nothing more of it, however, not wanting to place too much unwanted attention on his brother's flaw, knowing how delicate he was about such things. Instead, without saying anything, he moved closer and pulled a warm hoodie over his brother's head, covering him so he wouldn't be cold. Next he carefully returned the elder nation's glasses to his face, so that he could see more clearly.

"Are you alright?," the younger of the two countries asked in concern over his sibling. He didn't think that America would return to any sort of good spirits any time soon, but despite that, America nodded to him.

"I'm going to go pour some coffee, and grab the newspaper. I heard them hang it on the door this morning," Canada stated this, just to make his brother aware of it before he turned, and left him alone, giving him some space. Again, America nodded his head.

The nation turned a pensive stare back down on his city, his home, just as the sun finally came into the sky, creating a warm, golden halo of light blanketing the waking city. As he quietly looked over the city, the song from his alarm still seemed to play in his mind, uplifting him, giving him hope, and he recited a lyric to himself.

'_I need a hero._'

:: ::

/to be continued/

::


End file.
